Love and death
by make-mine-a-kiaora
Summary: Nick Cutler learns what it is to be "proper dead". Is there any redemption for such as he? Comments and reviews very welcome.
1. Chapter 1

**Love and death**

**Disclaimer:** Just playing with the wonderful toys. Will turn the lights out when I go. All rights remain with Toby Whithouse, the writers of the series and the BBC.

_Love should be the opposite of death._

– _George Sands, series 1, episode 3._

**Chapter 1. A dark and beautiful light**

Metaphysical atoms reversed their flow, pulling back together as if magnetised. As they accreted, rebuilding the disintegrated body, consciousness began to stir in the heart and mind of Cutler. Mr Nick Cutler.

With the return of his essence, Nick stood, reaching out with coalescing fingers, revelling in sensation. As his form solidified, he brought his hands together, captivated by the movement. He circled his palms before sliding his splayed fingers along his left arm, delighting in the feeling, the awareness. Then across his chest, noting his still heart, and down over his stomach. He was whole. His face lit with wonder as his questing fingers caressed his neck and hair before moving on to his forehead, cheek and chin. Then nose. Mouth and lips. Fangs. Everything as it should be.

As the remaining neurones began to spark, Nick's heart flooded with hope, a single thought enfolding him. Rachel... Could it be? Could she be here? So vivid now to him. Her warmth as he held her, their bodies melding. The way her hair caressed his face as he breathed in the lavender scenting her soft tresses. And the murmur of her voice, soft and low as she reached up to kiss his lips, her breath on his skin.

What was this? A hallucination, maybe. A memory, certainly. And a prelude of things to come? He had a good feeling about this. A really good feeling. He did have an immortal soul after all.

Ahead glowed a purple light, a highlight against the darkness that cocooned him, and he was beginning to notice that the air was scented. Eucalyptus and... something. Orange blossom? Not hellfire and brimstone anyway. Behind him there was... nothing. A void. So just one choice then. With a confidence that he'd rarely felt in the last 60 years, Nick inhaled deeply and strode forward to meet his fate.

_A/N Extensively revised as I suddenly figured out a better way of writing it._


	2. Chapter 2

_**Disclaimer: **__Just playing with the wonderful toys. Will turn the lights out when I go. All rights remain with Toby Whithouse, the writers of the series and the BBC._

_We meet people and fall in love._

_And when we part, _

_they leave marks for us to remember them by._

_Our lovers sculpt us._

_They define us._

_For better or worse._

– _George Sands, series 1, episode 5._

**Chapter 2. First footsteps**

The floor sloped away evenly beneath his feet and the purple glow intensified as, hands outstretched against the gloom, Nick walked on. The corridor walls were pressing in now, close enough to reach on either side, and funnelling down further with each step he took. He was slowing, faltering as unease settled on his spine like a tarantula on a rotting log. What was this? A blind alley? Or a labyrinth? A trap? And where was everyone? He'd never minded being alone but... But this was ridiculous.

A sudden longing knifed him. Hal. Always the leader. He'd have known what... But... He shook his head at the memory of his maker, trying to ignore the churn of indignation and betrayal that surged in his guts. Fifty-five years doing a Fossey. And lining up on the side of the primates. Unbelieveable.

The corridor curved suddenly to the right, breaking into a flight of steps to capture the unwary, and then on round, out of sight but more brightly lit. Nick swayed at the first drop but held his dignity. Then, as he negotiated the bend, a door loomed, blocking his way. A heavy, iron bound door. Like one from an old fortress. No guards, though he couldn't help wondering if there was a portcullis inside, or what may wait for him there. It wasn't clear how he got in. If he wanted to. He supposed he had to knock. But there was something odd about the door. The colour. A wheat-blade green in the clearing light. And the smoothness. No wood grain. Familiar and unfamiliar in one. It didn't aid his rising anxiety.

Still, there was nothing for him out here, so...

Right, first impressions... Cutler paused, putting on his tie from his pocket before checking his shirt collar with his fingers and dusting down the front of his jacket. Hoping that the rest of him was presentable, he straightened his posture and assumed his professional demeanour. A legal representative visiting a wealthy client who nevertheless needed his services. What could possibly go wrong?


	3. Chapter 3

_**Disclaimer: **__Just playing with the wonderful toys. Will turn the lights out when I go. All rights remain with Toby Whithouse, the writers of the series and the BBC._

_I want you to know you wandered off the path. This is where the wild things are, and we have got your scent now._

– _Annie Saywer, series 1, episode 5._

**Chapter 3. An invitation. **

So, 3 steps to the door. As Nick stepped forward, raising his hand in preparation, the air around him thickened and hardened, freezing him into position. It felt like he was encased in a translucent marble. And, at the same time, a klaxon sounded. An evacuation warning... It sent his nerves into high alert like an infantry platoon falling into line, marching hither and thither through bone and muscle. Was he in a factory or a mine? He struggled, trying to channel the nerve impulses, to flail his limbs, push his body out or otherwise break free. But there he stayed, motionless, like a fly entombed in amber. His head thumped with the dammed adrenaline overload, his senses split apart like shale, scattering and screaming, and he wanted to heave more desperately than he'd ever done in his vampire life. Neither fight not flight was an option now.

As the klaxon sounded again, the air in front of him shimmered and the door dissolved away. A man... a soldier... stood in the centre of a golden gateway which looked to be built from lianas and other climbers. He was tall, with plaited black hair and muscles, and flanked by 2 further guards, one on each side of the archway, both of whom faced inwards, across the path. All of them wore the same regalia – yellow satin tops and trousers with red piping and sashes, and shoes the deep crimson more akin to vampire than human blood. They looked human but a whiff of familiar scent spilled out towards Nick, confirming the worst fears in the depths of his psyche.

Werewolves...

As if to confirm, the leader, who brandished a staff a little too similar to a cattle prod, smiled at Nick, allowing his canines and muzzle to lengthen and his claws to protrude at will. Oh, shit! Shit! Shit! Shit! It looked like he'd arrived. This must be Hell.

The leader, now back in human form, pointed his staff at Cutler and the restraints dropped away, as Nick over-balanced and fell sprawling on the floor. It shone like etched and polished glass, reeking of opulence, and Nick lay there, feeling out of his depth in more ways than one. It wasn't a pleasant feeling but it was certainly a familiar one. He wished that it would be of more comfort. He tried so hard not to mind as the werewolf threw back his head and laughed, soon joined by his compatriots.

"Hail, Mr Cutler. We've heard all about you... you may be assured. Such an... honour."

Nick curled himself around on the floor, hugging his head to his knees. He was in for a beating, for sure. How had this happened? He'd brought himself here – to the door and to knock – buoyed up on euphoria and hope. And now... Well, now there was this. Just when you thought that life couldn't be any more unfair.

A rough, claw-tipped hand grabbed his shoulder and armpit and he was hauled to his feet. A feral grin awaited him.

"Don't worry, Mr Cutler. You're invited in."


	4. Chapter 4

_**Disclaimer: **__Just playing with the wonderful toys. Will turn the lights out when I go. All rights remain with Toby Whithouse, the writers of the series and the BBC._

Look at us both. Covered in other people's blood and talking about morality... but there's one difference between you and me: You had a choice

– _John Mitchell, series 2, episode 8_

**Chapter 4. Akareirya **

Nick began to shudder like quaking grass when the breeze picks up. Remembering...

Embalmed by flame. Then immolated by a ghost. Without even a by your leave or a warning. A stake right through his chest. Entry and exit. Its full thickness shattering his heart. It hurt. It fucking well hurt. Like nothing on earth.

And then the final ignominy. His body fading to grey and cracking; the horror of mental and physical disintegration. The inexorable return to dust. To anonymity. He could find no words to describe that feeling. Knowing that this was real. Was actually happening. And he'd thought that dying was bad the first time around.

Nick slumped against the wall, face cradled in his cupped palms, trying to still himself. To not let it overwhelm him. He could feel his body. The touch of his fingers on flesh – his solidity -but it didn't help him. He tried to breathe but it was raggy and brought with it the tears. They spilled down his cheeks as he fought back the sobs and berated himself that he mustn't give in to it. He knew that, if he did, he'd break down and howl. He might even cry for all eternity. And he's tired. So, so tired.

And the werewolf knows. Nick is sure that he knows everything... His spectacular. The orchestrated reveal. And how he died to end the War Child. Nick decides that he's not going to look at him. If he can hold himself, keep it together, maybe...just maybe... his jailer will go away.

xXx oOo xXx oOo

A quiet voice breaks into Nick's reverie as a hand appears on his shoulder. A slender, unblemished hand.

"Mr Cutler? Take this. It will help."

A goblet presses into his hand, filled with what looks like tea. He sniffs. Then tests it, cautiously sipping. It is tea. The only beverage guaranteed to cure all evils...not! He looks up at the man who is trying to help him. It's a nice gesture but it isn't blood. That's what he really needs now.

His companion is a vampire. That much is clear. With shoulder length straight hair, the colour of Rachel's, and eyes of the palest blue. They seemed familiar. He had seen them before but he couldn't place where and his brain still wasn't firing on all cylinders. But his rescuer seemed kind. And dignified. And the 3 werewolves stood together, off to the side.

Was the vampire the boss round here? And where was he? It looked like a country house from the middle ages, with high beamed roof and an open fire place. Though the library area, with glassed over bookcases from floor to ceiling, that looked impressive. And his host was smartly, if somewhat oddly, attired.

"Come, Mr Cutler."

The vampire took Nick's arm, assisting him to stand and led him to one of two large leather armchairs by a rug in the centre of the room.

"Please sit down. "

He indicated one of the chairs and Nick sank into it gratefully.

"I would like to call you Nick. And you may call me Akareirya."

Akareirya poured himself another cup of tea, refilling Nick's cup, before seating himself in the other chair and studying Nick intently. As Nick was usually the one assessing the clients, not the other way around, it did nothing to improve his uneasiness in his new surroundings.

"Oh, and before I forget," said Akareirya , rising and gesturing to the soldiers, "these people are my friends and my guard of honour. You met Richard. This is Alan and here is Steve. They will forgive you the formalities. It's clear that werewolves unnerve you. Not an uncommon response."

That was a relief. He wasn't going to offer to shake any of their hands.

"Richard," Akareirya addressed the lead wolf, "thank you for your services. Now is a good time for you and your men to take a break. I will call you if I have need of you."

The werewolf looked sick. Evidently not what he'd had in mind. But, chivvying along his compatriots, all 3 of them bowed and then left the room.

Nick felt an inkling of relief. Now it was just him... and Akareirya.


	5. Chapter 5

_**Disclaimer: **__Just playing with the wonderful toys. Will turn the lights out when I go. All rights remain with Toby Whithouse, the writers of the series and the BBC._

What have we got left to look forward to? Us refugees. The flotsam and jetsam of death. Maybe, if we still deserve such a thing as mercy, we find each other.

– _Annie Sawyer, Series 1, Episode 1_

**Chapter 5. The roads less travelled**

Akareirya sat down again, facing Nick, and lent forward, smiling.

"So, Nick. I expect you have some questions. I trust that the re-constitution process wasn't unpleasant."

"Ah. Er. Well, yes, Mr Akareirya..."

His companion interrupted, cutting across Nick's bluster, "Just Akareirya. That is my first and only name. Surnames are a recent invention by my standards."

"Yes, well, ahm...," Nick clasped the goblet of tea with both hands as he screwed up his courage, " I'm dead then... aren't I? Proper dead?"

"Indeed you are." Akareirya gazed at him levelly – no sympathy but no hostility either. "What do you remember?"

Nick chewed his lip, thinking. Akareirya seemed to be the perfect gentleman but he wasn't sure that he wanted to spill his secrets just yet. This was beginning to feel like an interrogation, however gentile the circumstances were. He wanted to know what was going on. And to get back some of the higher ground.

"Akareirya, please would you be so good as to tell me where I am?" Nick enquired, careful to maintain the idiom which had been established. Akareirya spoke a little like Hal had done sometimes.

Akareirya frowned. "Do excuse me. Where are my manners?"

He thought for a minute before continuing.

"As you correctly surmise, Mr Cutler, you are 'proper dead' as you put it. You have reached one of the gateways which lie between the world you knew and the afterlife, such as it is. As I'm sure you can imagine, millions of people die on Earth each day, and they all have to be processed and sent on to the appropriate destination. We must do this efficiently, or the whole place would become like a refugee camp, and we must also do it correctly. Each person has to find their peace, so to speak, before they can progress, and for some that is more straightforward than for others. "

As Akareirya paused, Nick began to question him.

"What do you mean - find their peace?"

Akareirya, enthused by his student's interest, elaborated, "I mean, make a reckoning of their life. Good and bad. What they did to themselves. Their impact on others and how others impacted them. The choices made. .. They must seek to understand the roads which they have taken."

Nick started to splutter and tried desperately to turn it into a cough. That all sounded far too much like New Age mumbo-jumbo for him, thank you very much.

"And, if I may ask, are you 'proper dead' too? Have you been through this process?"

Akareirya shook his head.

"It's complicated. In that I am a vampire, I have died the first time but not the second. But I am old. Older than you could possibly imagine, and I have spent my long lifetime in study. The arts and sciences, the sum of human knowledge and the arcane sources, beyond the human world. Ancient histories and ancient wisdoms. My work led me here, though I am one of the very few who can cross between the worlds at will. Perhaps the only one."

Nick began to laugh openly now, doubling over.

You don't expect me to be that gullible, surely?"

"I do not think that you would understand, Nick Cutler. You lived a short vampire life and, whilst I applaud your interest in technology and progress, you have an arrogance towards learning from past experiences which is quite significant."

Bristling, Nick was ready with a retort, about medieval vibes and dinosaurs, but Akareirya raised his hand, silencing the younger man.

"I do not want to argue with you. I am not your enemy here but your counsellor. I will help you with both the case for the prosecution and the defence, though I am responsible for neither. If you would rather I didn't then that's fine. I will ask Richard to take charge and provide you with an opportunity for some gentle reflection. I'm sure he will be all too pleased."

He paused, eyeing Nick like a stern schoolmaster, as Nick failed to suppress the shudder that ran through him.

"You must be wondering where exactly we are, and why I choose to be here."

"Yeah. I mean... what's in it for you?"

Akareirya pursed his lips as he considered.

"Allow me to finish explaining the background to you. As I mentioned, this is a gateway, one of several. By default, humans, and resolved ghosts, step through doors when they die and those doors take them to the primary gateway. Werewolves also go down those channels, in the first instance.

At this point, most people pass on with the help of a mentor. Some, however, require specialist assistance. This includes most of the werewolves and those humans who have committed atrocities or who are unable to let go or heal for whatever reason. They are then seconded here to my team as we are sometimes able to assist them.

Vampires are a different matter. As you know, our kind does not get doors. Most vampires are progressed straight to their journey's end down the default channels. However, for a small number, the situation is more complex. They may have done great or terrible things or struggled with their humanity, for instance. For those vampires, there are choices to be made, and they also come under our jurisdiction. You are one of those vampires, Nick, and I am here to help you."

Akareirya stood, his jade tunic falling over the top of his black trousers, and reached for a simple woollen cloak.

"I will return in due course, Mr Cutler, when you have had time to absorb what I have told you and to take in your current situation.

Choose wisely, Nick. I would like to work with you, but that is your choice. "

Nick looked away, refusing to make eye contact, and, when he looked back, Akareirya was gone.


End file.
